Thoughts On The Dead

Musings on the Most Ridiculous Band I Can't Stop Listening To

Tag: phil lesh (page 1 of 88)

Dead & Company At Citi Field

When did Bobby dye his hair?

That’s Garcia.

No. Garcia’s dead. I had to explain this to Nephew, but I thought you knew. Oh, shit, I’m not breaking this to you, am I?

This attitude is why Pitchfork won’t hire you.

Fuck Pitchfork.

That attitude, too.

Dude, hop on the D & C train.

It’s not Dead & Company. That’s the actual Grateful Dead at Bickershaw.

Nonsense. It’s Citi Field. Look in the crowd to the left of the stage; you can see Mr. Met giving Oteil the finger.

That’s not Oteil.

He would totally wear that sweater.

Absolutely, yes. Still: no.

I don’t get you, man. What about this picture doesn’t scream “21st century corporate perfection” to you?

Every single thing.

Ah, I’m just funning with you.

It’s never fun when you fun.

What’s the most Precarious Lee part of this setup?

Ooh, good game. Let’s play. Hmm. Amateurs might say the oblique angle that the monitors are lined up at.

Amateurs.

A more seasoned vet would point out that Pig is literally behind the PA.

Well, it’s not like there was any room on the stage.

True. But the real Enthusiast sees Precarious’ handiwork in that super-taut wire leading to the speaker all the way up top on the right.

So many points of failure.

It’s amazing they’re all alive.

They aren’t.

I was funning with you.

Yeah, you’re right: funning isn’t fun.

I know.

The Faster Weir Goes, The Rander Weir Gets

“Look what I got.”

Randos?

“The randiest. Although, this guy to my left keeps telling me go home and get my shinebox.”

Yeah, don’t murder him. It comes back to bite you in the ass.

“I’ll try. But, you know, if he keeps disrespecting me my hand will be forced.”

Don’t do it.

“Forced.”

Hey, Bobby.

“Yup.”

Don’t make it obvious, but check out the piece on the guy to your far right.

“Oofah.”

Right?

“Garcia’s was better.”

What?

“Jer wear a toupee. From about 1972 onward. Went to the same guy as Gene Simmons.”

This is not a fact.

“Oh, yeah. Real human hair, too. Parish used to get it for him. Sometimes, there’d be chunks of scalp still attached.”

“We doing group randos now? You got nothing, Weir.”

Not randos, Phil. That’s your band.

“This can’t be my band. Where are my children? I made my band with my own balls.”

Ew. And it is definitely your band. That’s Melvin Seals.

“Which one?”

The one that looks like his name should be Melvin Seals.

“I still think I’m winning Rando War.”

These aren’t randos!

“Agree to disagree.”

“They aren’t, Phil. Now this is a rando.”

No, Amir Bar-Lev. That is Michael Moore.

“He smells.”

I would imagine.

“And he won’t stop talking about Bernie.”

I would also imagine. You should get away from him before he rubs off on you.

“His bad luck?”

No, he physically rubs off on people. On the other hand, you might want to stand next to this fucker forever.

“It’s a good contrast, right?’

Totally. Your face has, like, bones in it.

“He just asked if I had any candy.”

Okay. Abort, abort. Get away from Michael Moore. The man makes awful movies and his voice makes me envy the Deafheads.

“But I look so good.”

Find an ugly fucker who makes good movies.

“Hmmm. Wait, I got it.”

“BOOM.”

Dude, you killed it.

“I rocked this shit.”

Why wasn’t the ’81 European tour covered in Long Strange Trip?

“Al Franken made me cut it.”

Oh.

Rando War: The Push Zoom

Please don’t–

“Rando War on the bocce courts!”

–join the Rando…dammit. Hasn’t there been enough tragedy on those courts?

“Why do you think I built them?”

Oh, God, you’re burying bodies in there, aren’t you?

“No.”

Are the busboys?

“Yes. Sometimes, Grahame does it.”

Why?

“If he doesn’t do his chores, he doesn’t get his allowance.”

Sure. Are you blessing that rando?

“Swatting a horsefly.”

Sure.

What is this, theme night?

“The, uh, framing of the pictures?”

Yeah.

“Huh. Looks like it. Little bit of randian synchronicity.”

You having a press covfefe?

“Yeah, apparently.”

What’s Mickey doing there?

“Not much. He’s gonna slap Branford’s flip-flops together for a while soon.”

So, the usual?

“About that, yeah.”

I Spy With My Little Eye

I see you back there.

“Shit.”

I got eyes everywhere, Oteil.

“Listen, just keep this under your hat.”

Not wearing one.

“And stop being so literal.”

Hate to hear what Billy will have to say.

“Please don’t turn this into a thing.”

Quisling.

“Don’t call me a quisling.”

Mickey’s not gonna like it, either.

“Billy’s more important.”

In every way.

“Don’t tell Billy.”

I dunno, Oteil. Let’s ask Steve Wozniak.

“What?”

Hey, Woz.

“Yo.”

Shoreline?

“Shoreline. Not as fun as the US Festival.”

Sure, but your ticket didn’t cost $12 million this time.

“True. What’s up?”

Should I snitch on Oteil?

“Snitches get stitches and wind up in ditches.”

You’re a fucking truth-teller, Woz.

“I know.”

You have a good show.

“Back atcha.”

Oteil, you’re off the hook. You should thank Woz.

“I completely do not understand how this universe works.”

Don’t ask Bobby. You’ll be even more confused.

“Yeah, sure.”

As The Boy Sings Round The Fire

Phil, tell that kid his marshmallow’s done.

“I’m not the boss.”

Yes, you are. You own the place.

“I just don’t want to.”

Okay. You saw Long Strange Trip?

“You mean Long Strange Crap?”

Oh, boy. Didn’t like it?

“Not even ten percent of the story. Really missed a lot of stuff.”

Like what?

“Well, you know the old saying: no Ned, no Dead.”

That is not a saying.

“Did you know that the Dead had an incredible softball team?”

I didn’t.

“Course not! Wasn’t in that so-called ‘movie.'”

It’s a movie, Phil.

“Fake documentary. What’s that jackass’ name?”

Which one?

“Mister director man.”

Amir Bar-Lev.

“Suspicious name.”

Please concentrate. You used to be so much easier to talk to.

“Anal Bear-Claws comes to the restaurant–”

Amir Bar-Lev.

“–and interviews me for like nine hours. I’m in the damn movie for a minute. And he didn’t even show the specials!”

The what?

“The specials. I got 200 pounds of short ribs I gotta get rid of.”

Well, that would have been a bit off-topic.

“Mm, yeah. Might have distracted from Franken pontificating about West L.A. Fadeaway.”

Althea.

“They’re the same song. Listen: you got a four-hour movie, and there’s not a spare ten minutes to detail what an asshole Billy is?”

Again: off-topic.

“There’s ten minutes of Bobby looking at stuff. I gave Amal Clooney–”

Amir Bar-Lev.

“–a monologue of at least 90 minutes on the topic of Billy. I went over how he was an asshole, when he was an asshole, and to what extent he was an asshole. And evidence, too! I brought receipts.”

Why are you merely passive-aggressive with the other reporters, but just aggressive with me?

“Why would I give a shit about you? Pitchfork won’t even hire you.”

True.

SHPLORP

Marshmallow fall into the fire?

“Yup.”

Told ya.

Raise Whatever’s In Front Of You

Are you drinking?

“It’s non-alcoholic, jackass.”

Why does everyone else have to drink it?

“I said so.”

And why is there only plate of food?

“It’s mine.”

Nobody else gets food?

“They’re all welcome to order whatever they want. 10% discount.”

What about your son?

“20% except for fish.”

Sounds right.

“Seafood prices are killing me. No one knew that running a restaurant was so complicated.”

Really?

“Of course not, jackass. I was making fun of that orange dipshit in the White House.”

It’s been an exhausting week.

“He’s gotta stroke out soon, right?”

No. I think he’s the Immortal Evil. Keith Richards will die before Trump does.

“I could send the busboys.”

You shouldn’t

“They really want to.”

Understandably. And righteously. But still.

“What if they just huck tennis balls at his bedroom window at night?”

Randomly?

“Yeah, randomly. Of course. We’re going for learned helplessness here. Keep up.”

Sorry.

“Sleep deprivation. Powerful weapon.”

Hey, man: they’re your busboys. Do what you will with them.

“And that shall be the extent of the law.”

Hail Baphomet.

“Lucifer was framed.”

Y’know what was fun? When the mics would pick up you guys arguing about how many beats the intro of Beat It On Down The Line would have, and then you get to count along with you. Really fun.”

“Get out.”

Okay.

Backyard Fun With Bobby And Phil

When Phil makes that face, you need to give him about three feet of space or you’re getting bitten.

OR

Bobby?

“Uh-huh?”

Is that a Fender?

“Yeah. But, you know, it still cost twenty grand.”

Oh, thank God. I was worried.

“It’s a ’59. This sucker liked Ike.”

He was a genial sort.

“People don’t know this about Eisenhower, but he was our most graceful president.”

Really?

“Moved like a panther.”

I learned something today.

“Yup, okay.”

OR

Bobby’s wrist is reaching Johnny Deppian levels of tchotchkes and bric-a-brac.

OR

Phil loves that green flannel so fucking much I cannot begin to describe it. It might be his wubby at this point. Don’t believe me? Here’s Phil tonight:

Several of you go to Terrapin Crossroads regularly; someone bring Phil a new shirt.

For The Wood Is Dark, And Full Of Phil

Look at you, you handsome son of a bitch.

“What can I say? I’m hot.”

I said “handsome.” I did not say “hot.”

“You were thinking it.”

Nope.

“Whaddya want?”

I heard that you’re doing the setlist from 5/7/77 at TXR tonight with the Phamily Band.

“When you plug, it’s always very obvious.”

Just answer the question.

“Yup, we are.”

Nifty. You remember anything about that show?

“Nope.”

Nothing?

“You want me to remember a specific night from 40 years ago?”

If you could.

“I can’t.”

Make some stuff up?

“I understand why people hide in the bushes from you.”

You’re too skinny. Eat something.

“Kiss my skinny ass.”

Faces In The Crowd

This looks like a Before/After shot in a laxative ad.

OR

“Kobe got fired? I thought he retired.”

“James Comey, Bob.”

“Who did he play for?”

“He was with the FBI, Bob.”

“Female Body Inspectors?”

“No, that’s not a thing.”

“Then where did Billy get the tee-shirt?”

“Just play the song and glare at the camera, Bob.”

“You bet.”

The Passing Of The Hair Dryer

“Why are you staring at my hair, Bob?”

“Looks great. Just bought it?”

“I don’t wear a hairpiece, Bob.”

“Sure, sure. Hair system. Whatever they call them now.”

“Weir, it’s all me.”

“Ah, yeah, I dunno.”

“Whaddya mean, ‘I dunno?'”

“Well, everyone knows I’m the one with the good hair in the Grateful Dead.”

“40 years ago. 40 years ago, you were the guy with the good hair. Now, due to the vagaries of male genetics, I have the hair.”

“Like how the Democrats and Republicans flipped in ’68?’

“Please don’t compare my hair to the Southern Strategy, Bob.”

“I make no promises.”

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